


in sickness and ;

by therentyoupay



Series: santa kris 2013 ; holiday gift giveaway [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentyoupay/pseuds/therentyoupay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a rainy and miserable night, and he's so intent on his book that he doesn't hear it, the first time she knocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in sickness and ;

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poorlifedecisionsemily](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=poorlifedecisionsemily).



> **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters in this world. I only create the angst. :(  
>  **Gift Date:** December 1st.  
>  **Gift Prompt:** Royai, pre-war or post-war. (Emily also asked for a kiss in the rain, but I'm afraid I wasn't able to incorporate that. :( I'd originally intended for this to be much longer, but I needed to prioritize my writing projects, and I really, really liked the feel of this as it is.) Hope you don't mind, Emily! Maybe next time, haha.  
>  **Musical Inspiration:** "Young And Beautiful (DH Orchestral Version)" by Lana Del Rey.

 

.  
.  
.

Roy Mustang refuses to admit defeat, especially to the common cold.

A young man of only (already) sixteen, his ideals keep him awake through all hours of the night, and what little sleep is afforded him later is only claimed after his alchemy training, his tireless studies. It isn't fair, he thinks, for someone so young and in such fine health to succumb so easily to the first chill of winter, but he knows that it's really his own doing.

Even now, he can't seem to help himself. Even now, as he works from bed, bundled amongst the thick, suffocating blankets, and fights a fever only traces more effectively than his fatigue, Roy sits curled over a book, searing the symbols from the crusted pages into his mind's eye. He is due for another assessment, soon, and his master will not care for excuses.

So he keeps studying, late through the night, even though it's miserable, even though he has driven himself to exhaustion in his unwavering focus and his near-insomnia and his awful eating habits. It's not say that he isn't fed, because he is, but meat cools so quickly and chewing takes so long. (And it's been getting easier, hiding the half-eaten meals before the dishes are collected; he can only bear the disappointment on her face for so long, and the concern, for even less.)

He hasn't been taking care of himself, and this is his reward.

.  
.  
.

It's a rainy and miserable night, and he's so intent on his book that he doesn't hear it, the first time she knocks. She's brought him his dinner, a bowl of soup and a cup of tea that will spread warmth to his aching limbs, once he gets around to tasting it. Quiet and unassuming, Riza carefully places a tray at the foot of his bed, and he looks up.

He blinks a few times, once he realizes that this is real and not some hazy mirage brought on by his illness, and they look at one another, quietly. He watches as her eyes fall to the books spread over his lap, and tries to decide how he should seem, once she looks back, whether he should smile, and how wide. (Roy Mustang has always loved to smile, and it is surprisingly easy around this young girl, even if her smiles are rare--are treasured--even if he questions himself, every time.) His lips are curving upward, a half-smirk ready, when he notices that she's staring at the lunch she'd brought him some hours before, completely untouched.

By the time her eyes flicker to his, his smile is already gone, a chagrined grimace in its midst. "Sorry," he mumbles, then hastily clears his throat, further chastised by the scratchy disuse of his voice.

He's still not ever quite sure what to expect with her--a smile, a blank stare, a roll of the eyes--but living in her father's house for the last month or so has taught him that young Riza Hawkeye is not the kind to lecture.

Although, sometimes, he thinks it might be better if she would.

The corners of her lips pull down ever-so-subtly, while concern pinches the skin between her brows. Her eyes narrow slightly, careful calculation behind that clear blue, and Roy's tired mind is struck speechless with an apology trapped in his lungs, and maybe a little shame, floating somewhere deep within his gut.

"Lost track of time, I guess," he rasps sheepishly, rather unhelpfully, because the silence has grown uncomfortable. It's usually one of the things he likes about her, the calm and quiet truth of them accepting and sharing one another's space, but this is different. Despite his loud nature--and many years of its development--moving into the Hawkeye residence has given him a new appreciation for silence. Now Roy is often slow to break the quiet, afraid of disturbing the peace--afraid of disturbing her--but guilt and a need for redemption have the tendency to make him awfully vocal. (It's something he should be more careful of, he knows, if he intends to become Führer, which he does, fully; Roy has always had the very strange feeling that, one day, his conscience could be the end of him.)

Riza looks at him, and he can tell that she's trying very hard not to frown. He hasn't known her very long, but he knows that she's dying to say something, even if she thinks it may not be her place. (And he's still learning too, still trying to decipher the unspoken dynamics of those who call this household home, amidst tense silences and closed doors and closed-off hearts.) He sort of wants her to, for many reasons, to deal out a reprimand, even though he knows what she will say, and that she'll be right. Even though he knows she won't.

Carefully, Riza leans over to the small side table at his bed and picks up the forgotten tray. He watches her stand and remove the wasted meal from his side, feeling his sticky skin prickle with guilt. He wants to say something more, to maybe apologize again, for his display of ingratitude--or to thank her, even, especially--for remembering the ghost who occupies his room and spends his days and nights poring over ancient textbooks, and who doesn't properly eat the meals she cooks for him, and he looks down at the book in his lap, as if the symbols and text will feed him the words, but by the time he looks back up, she's already slipped out of the room, back into the dark hallway.

Roy frowns, breathing the cold, damp air into his lungs, feeling it burn his throat, which has grown hot and ragged from hacking and coughing. He tries to clear it, but all he gets for his efforts is a rushing headache, and a pressure that means to cave in his skull. His breath slips from his mouth, slow and steady, and hot against his dry, cracking lips.

Slowly, Roy marks his page, closes the large volume in his lap, and carefully sets it to the side. There is soup in his bowl and hot tea in his cup, and he can't actually taste anything at all, but Roy knows beyond all reason that it is delicious.


End file.
